This will be fun, p.14
This Will Be Fun, page 14
More cheering. Keralians were a cheering-inclined people, Beatrice noticed. She wished she wanted to join them.
“Every year, we remember,” the lady went on. “For in remembrance, we keep the past present.”
This, Beatrice found, was exactly why she hated the Festival of the Four. Not just remembering what had happened. Rather, Beatrice loathed the idea it was even possible to forget. It infuriated her. The quest would not need commemoration for her—not when it would never, ever escape her memory, even for one moment. Imagining it would for others . . . Poisonous jealousy coursed in her.
She fumed while the lady went on. “We remember. We remember how easily men of status can change into creatures of evil. We remember how the Fraternal Order, once known for nothing other than gaudy revels and investing farthings in each other’s castles, went from proud noblemen to conspirators out to overthrow our queen and destroy Queendom.”
The Keralians shook their heads in condemnation.
“We remember who inspired the Order’s darkness,” the Lady of Keralia continued. “We know now how to recognize the face of evil. Todrick van Thorn.”
Hearing his very name, Beatrice felt herself flinch.
Todrick van Thorn. The face of evil. Indeed, he was. Wide-smiling, raven-haired, devastatingly persuasive. The young nobleman’s unique gifts suited him grandly in the Order’s company. His head magic could rewrite reality in his vicinity, changing memories or enhancing, eliminating, or editing what was.
“He corrupted the Order. Changed complacent men into wicked ones. He wielded loyalty like a weapon, camaraderie like poison. He reminded us”—the lady paused, indulging now in her dramatic rendering of history—“of how evil does not flourish in isolation. It spreads like the Nightbiter Plague. Like it spread from Todrick van Thorn to his friend, Myke Lycroft, his counterpart in villainy.”
They were darkly perfect for each other, Beatrice remembered. Each needed the other. Each held the key to the other’s devious design. Lycroft, a hand-magical weaponeer, could forge implements for the magnification and replication of others’ magic, yet had no other magic himself. Todrick’s magic could rule a revel, but not a realm—not without Myke to heighten his powers. They were the ultimate duo of destruction. Determined to dominate Mythria together.
“Lycroft crafted the instrument of the Order’s plan—the Sword of Souls,” the lady recounted raptly. “When charged with the pain of those who perished under the sword’s stroke, the weapon could extend magic like van Thorn’s without end. The Order kidnapped Princess Thessia before her coronation. With Thessia deposed, they would use van Thorn’s magic to recast the realm into one under Todrick’s unending rule. They would reach out with his powers not only to neighboring noblemen, but to every person in Mythria.”
With her words, the village folk booed like they were receiving the decade-old news for the first time.
“Queendom would not even need conquest,” the lady continued. “It would simply . . . vanish from memory.”
Beatrice watched the villagers react, remembering with every sentence why she scorned the festivals. Was this fucking theater to them? Did these memories not shadow their every waking moment? This isn’t some grand old legend with a happy ending, she wanted to scream out.
“Until the Four saved us!” the Lady of Keralia cheered. Right on cue, the crowd whooped with joy. “They rode into battle and slew Todrick van Thorn! The sword was lost forever! Lycroft sent into hiding!” The lady’s celebratory exclamations sounded now like newshandlers’ cries promising wondrous reportage.
Beatrice clenched her fingernails into her palm, desperate to interject what else the Four did. They’d lost their dearest friend. They’d destroyed each other. They didn’t need to remember because they would never forget.
“Our village was freed,” the lady continued, softer. “Fear fled our streets. We could cherish our neighbors, look forward to our sunrises. We returned,” she said, “to life.”
The hush her words cast over the crowd gave Beatrice pause. Villagers bowed their heads in quiet remembrance.
Watching their expressions, she wished she could feel their gratitude. She really did. She wanted to feel like the Four’s victory was not only cheap fairy-tale pageantry for the people of Keralia. Perhaps it inspired them. Perhaps it instilled in them the idea to remember the wonder of every day hence. In ten years of hiding from the Festival of the Four, Beatrice had forgotten heroism could hold such meaning.
Instead, she could only remind herself of what the village’s story left out. What the people didn’t know. The truth of why, when the village of Keralia returned to life, Beatrice’s own life shattered.
“We will never forget this day,” the lady continued. “Like we will never forget the day the sun rose ten years ago and the queen remained on the throne.”
She faced the group of them now. Beatrice’s hands went slick with sweat.
“If we could request of you one more favor . . .” The Lady of Keralia’s voice was honeyed, like the mead Beatrice consumed too much of yestereve. Both were in danger of rendering her ill.
The lady held out the dark orb.
“Beatrice of the Four,” she exhorted, “would you use our Conjurall to show us the day you slayed Todrick van Thorn?”
No cheers now. Only the hush of hope. Every eager eye found her.
Of course she recognized the Conjurall, one of many enchanted creations designed for those with head magic to project, for the viewership of others, the conjurations or insights of their magical gifts. The noblewoman wished her to project her gift of reverse prophecy for everyone to view the defeat of the nefarious van Thorn.
The lady lowered her voice, showmanship replaced with gentle inquiry. “Please,” she implored. “Many in our village have found inspiration in your perseverance and your victory. It would be the honor of our lives.”
Beatrice genuinely contemplated refusing. No matter the village lady’s exhortations. Of course, Beatrice could project every detail for the village folk of Keralia, right down to the moment they defeated Todrick—the moment Galwell was killed. It would hardly disturb her now. She’d watched it thousands of times.
She could not, however, show it to Elowen.
Gracefully, Clare stepped up next to her. “Why don’t I lead us in song instead?” he offered, exactly like he had last night. Repetition robbed none of the luster from his enthusiasm. It was kind. Noble, even.
It infuriated her.
Yes, her life had gotten messy. Yes, she loathed herself when she was not drinking her storm-clouded soul into emptiness. What she was not, however, was some damsel for the heroic scoundrel’s rescuing. She was sick of his kindnesses. She pushed past Clare to jump down from the float, reaching for the Ominoccular.
“I’ll show you one of our greatest victories instead,” she promised. “The day we rescued the princess.”
What a surprise—the people of Keralia cheered.
Placing her hands on the shining inky stone, Beatrice summoned the scene, letting her magic spill into the sphere. The vision unfurled out from the orb, the veils of the past parting in the Western Coast sky. Above them, nighttime reigned, the darkness deep in the forest where—
She saw herself. Running.
Beatrice the hero looked powerful. Like the statue in the square come to glorious life. Her footsteps flew over the uneven ground, threading past trees in her dash.
Elowen was with her. Clare too.
He rushed past her, wind whipping his hair. Grinning with wild light, he looked as handsome then as he did now.
In Elowen, however, the changes caught Beatrice up short.
Running ahead of her, Elowen was laughing. She looked giddy. Like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
“Pick up your pace, Beatrice!” Clare called out in playful competition. “Last one to rescue the princess is a rotten duskjay egg!”
She could not even keep herself from grinning with him. “Surely you’re not serious,” she replied. “Is this how you escaped the Grimauld Mines? With immature schoolyard insults?”
“Now that you mention it . . .” Clare paused in pretend contemplation, his impressive stride never slowing. “Why, yes, I do reckon my shouting ‘Your leg-pits stink of gryphon droppings!’ did indeed help me escape.”
Elowen giggled. No matter how heavily one felt the weight of responsibility, gryphon dropping jokes never got old.
“Never underestimate the power of a good quip,” Clare counseled. “Or a catchphrase. I’d love to have a catchphrase one day.”
“How about,” Elowen chimed in, “Clare Grandhart—loved by many, especially myself!”
Hearing her own laughter, the Beatrice in the village square remembered why she only watched sad memories. Sometimes the joyous ones hurt worse.
“I like it,” past-Clare replied gamely. “I like it!”
They descended into the wooded gorge for which they’d set out, watching for clinging nightmares in the foul pits where frightening dreams could live, continuing to flourish even once dreamers had stopped dreaming them.
The path steepened, level enough to run, yet perilous. Which meant Clare chose that moment to spin nimbly, jogging backward, facing the girls.
“Show-off,” past-Beatrice declared.
He grinned. “Now who’s immature?”
“What can I say? You bring out the best in me.”
In the village square, Beatrice was not prepared for the fondness flickering over Clare’s expression with her joke.
Nor was she prepared for the crossbow bolts whizzing by their past selves, striking their pursuers—pursuers that Beatrice had forgotten were the reason for their dash through the forest in the first place. The Conjurall revealed the three of them nearing the stronghold where Princess Thessia was being held, its obsidian spires reaching into the night.
In front, his stature majestic, crossbow in hand, stood Galwell.
He rattled off crossbow shots to scatter their pursuers, clearing his friends’ path to the dark fortress, where he had boldly ventured first, volunteering his hand-magical strength in case the Order had placed monsters to guard the citadel. Beatrice could not help noting how perfectly Galwell it was. Ever selfless, ever skillful. Ever in the right place.
Evading the Order’s minions with his help, the three of them crowded to Galwell’s side. The hero’s hawklike eyes scouted the forest line, where the ominous rustle of enemies went quiet.
“Should we wait until we know they’re gone?” Beatrice inquired, out of breath, chest heaving from their sprint.
Galwell held his weapon poised. “No. Thessia needs us,” he replied. “Legends never wait.”
Clare’s shoulders slumped. “Fuck, see?” he said to his friends. “That’s so good. Thank you, noble sir.” He clapped his hand heartily on Galwell’s shoulder.
Innocently curious, the other man paused. “What’s so good?”
“The usual, brother,” Elowen said. “Clare is jealous of how effortlessly fashionable and impressive you are.”
When Galwell smiled, it pierced Beatrice’s heart.
“No cause for jealousy, Grandhart,” he said. “There is greatness in you.”
His words were sincere, like always. Their effect on the younger Clare was immediate. His careless facade faded, and inspiration lit in his eyes. He looked . . . to her. Like he wondered if she’d noted Galwell’s complimentary words.
She’d forgotten the moment. Forgotten the way her past self had smiled slightly, her only acknowledgment that she could glimpse the same greatness in him.
Then, like she sought distraction from her own fondness, she’d stolen over to where one of their crossbow-struck enemies was expiring. Palm to the man’s forehead, she summoned his memory with her magic “They’re . . . they’re in the third door in the corridor to the right,” she called over, informing the group.
“I feel hostility past the door,” Elowen commented, catching her own racing breath. “We should be ready for combat, or a trap.”
“Let them try!” Clare cried out grandly.
Beatrice cocked her head. “It’s a little trite,” she said. “Not bad, though.”
“I can workshop it!” Clare replied. “I’ll have you know I considered ‘I’m always ready.’ It doesn’t quite hit hard enough, I fear. It sounds like I’m a wandering salesman for emergency gear.”
Elowen’s face wobbled from withheld laughter. It did rather sound the way he described.
“Perhaps,” Galwell interjected with patient good humor, “we could quip after saving the princess?”
“See, this is why you’re the leader,” Clare conceded. “Where would we be without you?”
In the village square, Beatrice felt her face go white. When she’d summoned the memory, she didn’t remember it invoked the question they had spent the past decade unwillingly investigating. Elowen stiffened next to her. Clare looked to the ground.
While her magic played on, she could hardly stand to watch the completion of the memory. The Four stormed the fortress. They fought off attacks from every angle, finally reaching the third door in the corridor to the right, which Galwell kicked down. Finding Thessia chained, he freed the princess. Hooray, them.
The Keralians cheered.
Exhausted, Beatrice removed her hands from the Conjurall, the vision concluded. She smiled weakly for the festival crowd, mustering the warmest reception she could for their gratitude.
Until she caught sight of Elowen. Elowen, whom she’d intentionally spared the gutting vision the Lady of Keralia had requested.
Her glare was livid.
Without words or decorum, Elowen strode off their float. On instinct, Beatrice pursued her, no longer caring what the crowd saw. Noticing Clare stepping easily once more into the spotlight, she doubted the village would object to her absence.
Down one of the side streets, she caught up to Elowen. “What is wrong with you?” Beatrice demanded. She found she was enraged. “Would you rather I showed the moment your brother breathed his last?”
Elowen halted and rounded on Beatrice. “I’d rather you had shown something real,” she practically snarled. “Not the farce you gave them. You made it seem like we were friends.”
The cruelty of her words left Beatrice nearly unable to breathe. “We were friends,” she managed.
Elowen scoffed. “Were we?” She stated the question flatly. “Why don’t you go up there and show them the moment you shared with me how you really felt. The day our friendship, as you say, died.”
Beatrice felt her fury coil within her. She knew she could withdraw, welcoming Elowen’s ire. She could consider the other woman’s hatred yet more deserved punishment. Or she could unleash what she’d kept hidden. What more could she possibly lose?
She didn’t care enough for restraint, she decided.
“Did you never wonder why Galwell climbed the ramparts?” she inquired calmly.
Elowen faltered, not following the change in the conversation. “I thought you didn’t want to relive his death today,” she finally challenged Beatrice.
“I relive it every day,” Beatrice replied.
Elowen eyed her. They stared like duelists with swords raised until Elowen relented. “Galwell climbed the ramparts in our final fight with the Order to stop you from trying to sacrifice yourself. You’d found out how to disempower the sword and didn’t tell anyone. I know all of this,” Elowen said. “It was the very last conversation we had, when my brother was fresh in his grave.”
Beatrice nodded. Elowen was correct. Unbeknownst to the rest of the Four, Beatrice had learned that the blood of a sacrifice, freely given, would quell the Sword of Souls. Of course, she’d planned to give her own life. What did Mythria need with one more daughter of peasants? What the realm needed was a vanquishing sacrifice.
“But did you ever wonder,” Beatrice replied, “how he knew I would give myself over? How you . . . didn’t know?”
Beatrice watched the question cloud Elowen’s ire. While Elowen could not read minds or exactly determine when someone was being deceptive, her lifelong closeness to Beatrice had permitted Elowen’s magic nearly such insight when it came to her friend.
“I knew you would be the hardest to lie to,” Beatrice went on. “Your magic would pick up my deceit. I knew you would question me about what I was hiding. When you did . . .”
She hesitated. When she’d driven the conversation in this direction, she had not known how hard reliving their friendship-ending fight would be. It had looked small from a distance, yet was daunting close up.
She forced herself to continue. “I made a confession,” she explained. “About how for years I had felt like your charity case. How it had weighed on me. How after that day, I would be done with you.”
Ghosts, was she nearly choking on the words, even now? Remembering how she’d hurt herself hurting Elowen, convinced she needed to for the realm?
Elowen’s eyes widened. She was starting to understand. She shook her head, looking like she wished to run from Beatrice’s story. Into the hills, or the forest, or wherever offered refuge. “My magic would have known if you were lying,” she challenged. “I would have known.”
“I wasn’t, though,” Beatrice managed. Confession, she found, was no load lifted. It was a chasm she needed to carve into herself. “Not entirely. What I told you had enough truth to fool even your gifts. I did feel indebted to you in ways I sometimes didn’t know how to deal with. And . . .”
Now was the hardest part. Yet she would not shy from hardship, she knew—from sacrifice. The same miserable, inevitable urge compelled her now.
“After that day, I would be done with you,” she said softly.
Stunned realization crossed the stone facade of Elowen’s features. “Because you intended to die,” she finished.
Beatrice nodded. “I knew it would hurt you to hear I wanted nothing more to do with you. It would be enough to keep you from seeking out the real truth I was concealing.” Her voice wavered like struck steel. “I knew you loved me. You would stop me and let the world perish. I . . . had to trick you.”
